Strangers
by Pappii
Summary: Hayato despised him with every fibre of his being. He hated the cocky way that man held himself, hated how he was loved and lusted after by most anyone who saw him, hated how he could grin at everything. - 8059 if you squint , AU


_"Why do you always do that, Takeshi?"_

_"Do what, Tsu?"_

_"Humour him like that. You know he just spends that money on drugs and booze."_

_"Ahaha, come on, now. That's not true. Besides, everyone deserves a chance."_

_"Or twenty, if it's coming from you."_

Hayato despised him with every fibre of his being. He hated the cocky way that man held himself, hated how he was loved and lusted after by most anyone who saw him, hated how he could grin at everything. But, at the same time, the Italian couldn't help but adore and idolize and _love_ the man for who he as. He adored that way he would greet all the children on the streets he walked, no matter how bad off they looked, idolized the way everyone wanted to be and know him, loved the way he smiled that handsome smile just for him as he pulled a few loose coins and - sometimes - notes from his jacket pocket to place them into Hayato's hands.

It was a routine that had developed over the past half year or so, starting not long after Gokudera Hayato had been evicted from his small apartment. He had moved to the small town of Namimori in his early twenties, and had lived a quiet, peaceful life by himself, glad to be free of the high-paced life he live back in Italy. He enjoyed being a nobody, someone in an average day-to-day job, spending nights at home alone and weekends aimlessly walking the streets and parks of the place he had chosen to call his home. But somewhere along the line, he must have screwed up, because, within the space of a few days, it was all gone and he was out on the street, homeless and even more alone.

He managed to survive with what little money he had left, stretching it out over cheap food and drinks and his hard-to-kick habit of being a pack-a-day smoker, but, like all things materialistic, that small stream of currency ended and he found himself doing things he didn't want to do. He managed to keep his habit to a smoke a day - or two if his willpower allowed it - and he turned to petty theft in order to secure even just a tiny morsel of food to keep himself going.

By the time summer rolled around, Hayato had worn himself out. He had been sick one too many times for his liking, had trouble sleeping in his makeshift bed in the park and his face was becoming gaunt and hollow - what little fat reserves he had had been used up just to keep him going. By the time summer had fully set in, he was ready to give up completely. And, so, with death on his mind, the Italian sat himself down on the sidewalk, leaning back against an old building near the local park and closed his eyes, awaiting the inevitable.

Yet it seemed Fate hated him - or finally decided to show him her kind face, he never really decided - and brought along the most unexpected of saviours. Anyone who lived in Namimori knew of Yamamoto Takeshi, the young, amateur baseball player destined for the professional and national league; a young man well loved and respected by all those around him. So, when Hayato was shaken awake and opened his eyes to meet the happy - yet concerned - brown eyes of such a person, he was convinced he was already dead. There was nothing else to explain it.

"You don't look too good, buddy," The baseball player had said, Hayato barely managing to bite back a crude, 'No shit, Sherlock' as the man dug through his jacket pocket, pulling out a small pile of coins and forcing them into the Italian's hand, closing his fingers around them. "Go get yourself a bento from the station down the road." He had smiled and stood and left before Hayato even had a chance to register what had just happened. When he did, it was too late to reject Takeshi's generosity - Hayato had never taken well to receiving charity - and figured it would be an insult to the man he used to be - he was never one to turn down gifts for the sake of the person he received it from.

Without Hayato realizing it, the baseball player had made a habit of slipping the still homeless man a few coins every day - always managing to find him no matter where he was - dropping in a few notes on occasion and, on a particularly wet day in fall, his jacket - _"Ahaha. There should be a few coins in the pocket and don't worry about me. I'll just duck under Tsu's umbrella." _- and every time, the Italian hadn't had a chance to reject the charity. He saw the disapproving looks of Takeshi's usual company, heard their disapproving queries as they walked away, and felt his adoration for the man growing as he only laughed off their thoughts.

The first time Hayato ever saw the man alone was the first night winter shared her blankets. The Italian was curled up on the sidewalk by the ballpark, sheltering under the small amount of roof overhead, hiding from the falling snow. He had the same baseball jacket he had been given months prior wrapped around him - still in near perfect condition thanks to his old habit of making sure everything he owned was well looked after - as he dozed lightly, body violently shivering in the cold. He remembered being shaken awake by a calloused hand, looking up into welcoming brown eyes, mumbling quietly in protest as muscular arms lifted him and held him against a toned chest - _"Come on, buddy. You're going to freeze out here."_

When he woke again, it was to the warmth and smell and comfort of a cosy apartment, heated by an open fire and filled with the sound of some comedy show or other on the television in the next room over. The Italian threw back the covers of the double bed he was lying in and took a moment to stare down at the clothes he was wearing - a shirt three sizes too big across and pants almost twice as long - before stumbling to his feet and using the wall for support as he left he bedroom. The large room he walked into seemed to be the entirety of the apartment, the kitchen and lounge separated by a breakfast bar, and a door on the other side of the room opened out onto a overlooking the town. What really caught his attention, however, was the topless man practically dancing around the kitchen, laughing loudly at the joke from the movie he had playing on the wide screen television. What startled Hayato was that this man - seemingly rather crazy, with a loose screw or two - was Yamamoto Takeshi, the man everyone loved and respected and wanted to be.

"Ah! You're awake. Hope I'm not the reason you are," A quick laugh followed the pleased statement and Hayato was ushered to sit on the single two-seater couch in the lounge and a hot bowl of steaming miso was forced into his grip. "All these months and I've never had the decency to introduce myself. What a rude person I am. I'm Yamamoto Takeshi."

"I-I know," The Italian managed to get out, his voice sore and hoarse from not being used. "I used to hear about you all the time on the news before I ended up on the street." Figuring his throat being dry was the cause of his croaky voice, he lifted the bowl to his mouth and sipped at the miso slowly - it may have been a while since he had had such a fresh batch, but that didn't mean he was going to be greedy about anything. "Hayato. Gokudera Hayato. I'm from Italy."

Their friendship slowly advanced from there. Despite all his attempts to leave, Hayato always wound being forced to stay by the lively baseball player who seemed all too keen to include his new room mate - against Gokudera's protests, Takeshi insisted they alternated sleeping on the couch and in the bed - in every aspect of his life. Eventually, the Italian caved and just started to look for a job. If he didn't have a choice in staying or going, then he'd help pay rent at least.

After more than a year of living together, they acted as though they had known each other all their lives, yet, despite both having a steady source of income - Hayato's from working in a local grocery store and Takeshi's from working in his father's restaurant in the off-season - they refused to move out of the small flat, still alternating where they slept each night. Their Christmas party was small, just the two of them sitting on the couch in the lounge, armed with beer and sake and a stack of comedy movies higher than Yamamoto's baseball bat stood on its end.

"You know what, Hayato?" Takeshi asked, looking thoughtful for a moment as he stared blankly at the credits rolling on the television as the Italian crouched down in front of it, switching the movies.

"What's that, Takeshi?" Gokudera asked, voice slurred from the onslaught of alcohol in his system.

"I think I love you."

"Yeah? Well I think you're an idiot."


End file.
